MOON
The fluttering of the tent over our sleep
cut in pieces by the wind
half black, half yellow landscape
a severed foot searching for its body
the dowser striking, trying the door,
and death striking, trying our hearts.
One talks in his sleep
the other yells like the wounded in the battleground
the others don’t listen, they sleep.
Are they then dead?
And the same voice crying: water, water.
It’s nothing. Go to sleep.
I’ll bring a spring to your hands day after tomorrow
and a river day after tomorrow. Go to sleep.
It’s not the ship, it’s the wind.
The hallway with the tiles, half black half yellow,
the crutches of the night in the hallway too.
It’s nothing, just the wind, go to sleep.
The resistance of the stretched rope
that can withstand, resolve can withstand too.
Justice can’t be cut in two. The Virgin of the Moon
saunters barefoot amid the tents.
What can you do with such a wind? One was talking
in his sleep.
It stops the words of the dead half unsaid.
What do you want? What?
What does the moon want in the old men’s tent?
The moon holds a small pocket knife to engrave
a few grapevine leaves in the coffin of uncle-Mitsos,
it has two short Sundays in its eyes.
What can we now do with this pocket knife?
There is vein in the wrist of the arm — it’s not there;
a bit further is the pulse, further in
and the rope that withstands the wind
ouhh, youhh, uncle moon
these ropes can’t be cut
let go of your knife, let go of it
go to the sick children and sell silver crosses to them.
Your feet seem too thin for these big boots
they can’t pull your legs;
these big boots of our comrades.
Lean down, measure them
count the distance they have walked
the road they’ll walk
the endless road.
These boots, repaired as they are, thick and rough
don’t suit your feet, oh moon.
These boots carried pain,
death, uncle moon,
they carried death without stumbling.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 